GaGa
by bonniesansclyde
Summary: Sherlock Holmes hears Lady GaGa in a cab on his way home. Gets stuck in his head. Hilarious drama ensues. Very fluff


As they rode in the cab to Baker Street, Sherlock couldn't help but hear the all-too-loud beat of the song the cabbie had insisted on playing. One of the singers seemed to be saying something about telephones, or some rubish like that, for she kept repeating it.

_Can't be that good of a song if it's about bloody telephones._ He thought, which was actually quite difficult given that the volume was clearly at 60 on that blasted radio.

When they arrived at home, Sherlock escaped the cab as quickly as possible. He couldn't even think properly in there. 30 minutes of that music had gotten to him. 30 minutes of electric drivel. _Stop callin'. Stop callin'. I don't wanna talk anymore._ He couldn't help but shake his head to clear his thoughts. This got a strange look from John, but Sherlock just ignored it, letting John think it was his normal absurdity. As he ascended the stairs, he seemed to walk in beat to the song that had now taken up unwarranted residency in his head.

_Call all you want but there's no one home and you're not gonna reach my telephone. _The voice sang in his head. Out of all the noise he had heard that night, that song had to be the one that stayed. _Great. Now I have to deal with that all night._

And all night it was. No matter what he did he couldn't escape it. He tried to play other songs, even ones he didn't particularly enjoy that much, but nothing worked. At some point in the night, he decided that playing the violin would be a good escape. It wasn't. He would start out playing Mozart and end up playing that bloody song again.

John seemed to catch on to this because just before bed, he had whistled a few bars looking a little too smug. _Giddy bastard._

_Hello, hello baby you called I can't hear a thing. _His eyes shot open._ God, even in sleep I can't avoid it. Though, it is better than what I could have trapped unwillingly in my head._

John just stared at him grinning like a kid who just won a bucket of candy at the fair, and Sherlock had to wonder whether or not the voice in his head was actually audible or not.

_Was it audible? ...Dear God, was I singing_? He thought with a look of horror on his face.

"So... GaGa then?" John said, still smiling with that I-know-something-embarrassing-about-you look.

Sherlock froze like a deer caught in headlights. It was plain that he had in fact been singing in his sleep, which was odd because he wasn't usually noisy while he slept.

"Who's that?" He managed to say without giving away what was obviously already out in the open anyway.

"Oh, just some singer." As John said this, he walked into the kitchen, and Sherlock lunged for his laptop, furiously typing away.

John chuckled from the other room. Obviously, he seemed to think that Sherlock was looking up this "GaGa." He was but he wasn't ready to admit that he was researching a pop artist.

Sherlock doesn't do pop. He's too rational for that, yet here he is, scrolling through Lady GaGa's Wikipedia page.

When John re-entered the room, clutching 2 cups of tea, Sherlock had to quickly close his laptop, and look as if he had a brilliant idea and was going to go consult a book. He was a good actor, but he couldn't fool John this time.

It seemed as though John was letting it go however. _Done mocking me, then._ He wants to blurt out at him, but that would just prove his guilt.

He absolutely had to get this out of his mind. He had to more than he had to breath. And breathing was boring, anyways.

The next day he had downloaded the song and had locked himself in his room secretly listening to it.

_There has to be something subliminal_. (He had downloaded it in the attempt to scientifically dissect it.) _How do you dissect music anyway?_

What he actually ended up doing was playing it over and over through his headphones, singing the words (softly, so that John wouldn't hear), and hating his mind for liking this nonsense.

At some point John had come to stand by his door (Sherlock could see the shadow of his feet under it), maybe to make sure that Sherlock was actually breathing, maybe to mock him. He suspected the latter.

Sherlock couldn't stay trapped in his room forever however, so he ventured into the living room acting as if he had just woken up, which should be believable (he usually slept until 3).

But John, must have gone out because the flat was empty and John's coat was absent from it's designated resting place.

_Perfect time to test out another section of my experiment._

Setting his laptop carefully on a stack of teetering books, he hit the space bar and "Telephone" filled the room.

Breathing deeply, Sherlock tried to resist the urge to just belt out the lyrics like an idiot, but failed miserably even going as far as to start flailing wildly in what could only be assumed was dancing.

It took about 2 minutes for him to realize that John had come home, and was watching him from the doorway, bracing himself on the frame and clutching his side.

He had to come up with an excuse. Anything to stop John from learning his secret.

"It's... not what it looks like." was all that he could manage to say and the moment he said it he knew he had said the wrong thing.

At this John collapsed on the floor, unable to suppress his laughter any longer, and Sherlock utterly fuming, stormed off to his room and locked the door.

_It's one thing to make snide remarks, but to laugh in my face at something I have clearly not yet come to terms with is unacceptable._

Sherlock flopped face-down on the bed, and went almost instantly to sleep.

His dreams were filled with the humiliating laughter that cut straight to the bone. He should be able to get over this. Delete it forever. But for some reason, he won't let himself. He won't let himself forget. He has to let John know how much that had hurt him.

So when he finally emerged from his room, he pointedly avoided John, grabbed his laptop, and sulked back to his den of safety.

John knocked on his door randomly throughout the day, saying "it's silly what you're doing," "don't be a child," "you have to come out sometime," "I don't see why you are getting worked up," and whatever he could to get Sherlock to come out.

Eventually, he stopped bothering him, maybe thinking that Sherlock just needs to get over it by himself. But then the door slammed and Sherlock realized that John had left.

And he didn't know if he'd be coming back.

John came home around midnight, and Sherlock knew this for certain. He was straining his ears since the moment John left, reaching for a sound of him. And he had heard the click of the bolt in the door, and the sound of conversation.

John didn't come alone, and he could tell by the sound of the steps that he had brought Mycroft.

_Mycroft? Honestly, John, you're the one being childish._

Mycroft tried to coax him out of his room a couple of times, but in vain and decided that letting him be would be the best option. He said with a voice far too loud for the conversation they were having, obviously making it clear the he wanted Sherlock to hear it, that Sherlock had always done this, sulked off to his room when things got too hairy. He'll get over it "if he would just stop being a prick and let his friends help him." Sherlock could hear his brother's eyes roll.

The next day was uneventful, and although Sherlock doesn't eat much, he began to feel a bit hungry (having not eaten for a couple of days). Yet, he couldn't risk letting John win this. He had to be sure that John knew exactly what was wrong, that it was his fault, and that he should apologize.

John left the flat for hours at a time, and God only knows what he was doing. Sherlock couldn't quite figure out just from the noises he heard through his door.

Taking ventures into the hallway on these occasions, he found that not only was John gone for most of the day, but he was spending a lot of money. There were bags everywhere, and it made the flat look even messier than before.

What John was buying was none of his business however, so he retreated to his room everytime he heard those familiar footsteps on the stairs, never once peering into the numerous bags that plagued the living room.

It was silly really, hiding like this, but it was John's fault and he had yet to confess to it.

The days that passed felt like months. No John to talk to (for he wouldn't allow himself to, no matter how much he wanted it), nothing to do in his room. It was tedious.

"Sherlock? You're stubborn, you know that. I guess I'll just say sorry so you'll at least get out of your room." It was the 5th day, and John had finally worn down.

Opening the door a crack, Sherlock peeked out at him with a grin of satisfaction and surprisingly, relief. "Thank God. I was going insane not talking to you."

"I've got something for you... to, you know, make you not hate me anymore." John said looking down at his feet.

_Is he... __blushing?_

Flinging the door open suddenly, Sherlock embraced him (something he has been wanting to do for a long time), whispering softly "I was only mad for the first couple of days. After that, I was just seeing how long it would take you to apologize."

They stood there a moment, Sherlock towering over John almost strangling him with how tight he was holding on, John tensing against him. Then, sensing John's tension, he realized how he may be overstepping some lines here, and let go.

"So..." he began slowly. "You said you got me something?" He couldn't hide his enthusiasm for long.

"Uh, yeah I did." John said, finally coming around after the startling show of emotion from his flatmate. He walked into the living room, and rifled through one of his bags, holding the item he retrieved behind his back.

"It was your brother really. He was the funding." He said as he held out a CD. _Lady Gaga_. "And, uh, the rest are other artists but the same genre..."

Sherlock was speechless. That's where he was going all that time. He was out with Mycroft, buying the entire store.

"Thank you, John." he finally verbalized as the biggest smile he had ever managed spread across his face. "Really. Thank you." And this time it was John who initiated the hug.

Clearly, Sherlock hadn't overstepped anything. Hadn't crossed any lines. Stayed within the comfortable boarders.

And suddenly, it was more than just a hug, as John stood on his tip-toes and pulled Sherlock's lips to his. It lasted only a second until John broke away and examined Sherlock's face, scanning for rejection. But within moments Sherlock pressed his hands to the back of John's neck and returned the kiss with a much more forceful one, John tangling his hand in Sherlock's curly hair.

"Sherlock..." John managed to say through his lack of breath. "You're welcome."


End file.
